


Blue

by Naopao



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Digital Art, Flowers, Found Family, Freeform, Gen, Light Angst, Zen basically being wistful and soft about flowers and his teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naopao/pseuds/Naopao
Summary: He follows her into the shop, tilts his head at her smile, joy infectious as they view the display. Life is so fleeting, so fragile.But it is also glorious, spontaneous.A story of finding family and growing anew. My Zenyatta fic for theFlorawatchzine with lovely art byCharles.
Relationships: Athena/Orisa (Overwatch), Genji Shimada & Tekhartha Zenyatta, but only if you squint - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Florawatch: An Overwatch Floral Themed Fanzine





	Blue

Zenyatta needs no excuse to leave the watchpoint and visit the capitol. The remnants of nomadic life still whisper to him: day, a stranger’s face; night, an old friend’s, all beneath the same, shared sky. To see and experience are as necessary and constant to his existence as his background processes.

He needs no excuse, but Dr. Ziegler does. She has been running reactions for the last sixty-two hours, staring hawk-eyed at her rows of monitors. When had she last breathed fresh, unfiltered air or walked the salted cliffs of the watchpoint?

Zenyatta reads her face as easily as her aura. She's an instant away from turning him down when he asks for her company, but then she smiles, resigned and ever so slightly chagrin.

"I suppose it would do me some good to get out."

They pass the coffee shops and small boutiques, gentle conversation trailing their steps. They stop at a grocer, find the brand of coffee that Dr. Ziegler hasn’t had in years but remembers with fondness. Zenyatta purchases loose leaf shincha for Genji, who misses the flavor, but his sense of smell is as good as always, as is the sensation of warmth when he drinks.

It happens to catch his attention, one way or another. The bright, colorful arrangement of flowers in a boutique's storefront display.

That vibrant mix of blue and purple he would remember anywhere. He had seen so many of them among the shambali, a native favorite, sharing the name of the subject of their faith. He stops in front of the display, relishing the bittersweet rush until Dr. Ziegler speaks.

"Blue irises! They are lovely, aren't they? We should get one."

And Zenyatta should mention how difficult it would be to keep plants at the watchpoint. Travel is rough on flora, and he could be gone from the base for weeks at a time, enough for even a persistent bloom to fail.

He follows her into the shop, tilts his head at her smile, joy infectious as they view the display. Life is so fleeting, so fragile.

But it is also glorious, spontaneous.

* * *

The singular iris is young and newly sprouted, planted within a red clay pot. There is a certain excitement to it, the possibility of life, the chance for it to bloom and bring joy to all who see it. It is a happy accident that the best environment is a common area within the watchpoint, that many passersby would catch a glimpse of the iris en route to one importance or another.

Zenyatta cares for it each day, reading the contents of the soil, watering only when necessary. The iris is a hardy plant, suitable for drier, harsher climates, easy to provide for in the controlled environment of their home base.

That is until Zenyatta is assigned a mission halfway across the world. He would smile, if he could, a gentle tightness twisting his core. He's slated to be on duty for several weeks, and Genji with him. How could he pass care of a flower to the other agents who had much more important things to accomplish?

Zenyatta checks on the iris before his scheduled departure, knowing, perhaps, it would be the last time. It is fully bloomed and beautifully blue, just like the gardens he remembers all those years ago. He traces a finger down its stem, leans forward to catch the scent of faint plum and jasmine. In that moment, he sees his brothers and sisters, the flora folding and swaying in the breeze, their arrays tipped down in meditation while the irises follow the tune of their orbs.

* * *

It is all the more wonderful, when, on his return, the iris is even larger and more beautiful. He even catches the culprit in the act: Shimada Hanzo, tight-lipped and gently flushed, holding an empty glass in his fist.

"It would be shameful to let it wither. Did you not adequately plan for its care?"

The misdirected annoyance forces a laugh from his synth, and Zenyatta gently clutches his faceplate, Hanzo reddening all the more at his gentle glee.

"How irresponsible of me. Thank you for your assistance, Shimada-san."

Hanzo seems at a loss of words, only dipping his head curtly, leaving as soon as is appropriate, a man who stubbornly clings to respectability, even in times of paradigm shift.

How strange, how uniquely surprising, to see one so reserved moved for something so insignificant.

* * *

“I, uh, noticed that you have a bit of a green thumb, agent Tekhartha.” 

A vertical row of Zenyatta’s array onlines. The warmth from the afternoon sun had slowed his systems pleasantly during meditation. Winston’s form eclipses the light, though Zenyatta feels anything but intimidated. Cupped in one large, hairy hand is a potted plant, a cactus, small and stunted. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you help me fix this little guy?” Winston smiles weakly. “It was a present from Lena.”

Zenyatta unfurls his hands from mudra, slowly standing. “Certainly. You need not be so formal, Winston.”

“Er, right,” and the scientist smiles a little fuller. They begin to walk in the direction of the common area. “I’ve been watering it as directed, but it just doesn’t seem healthy…”

* * *

In that way, piece by piece, person by person, their modest collection grows. First, potted plants, forget-me-nots, blue and delicate, vibrant french marigolds, painted tongue, gradiating from gold to brilliant fuchsia. It should be overwhelming, but most agents stop by to take care of their makeshift garden. Perhaps one plant withers beneath a novice hand, but there are always new ones to replace it, no ill will.

“Sorry, Zenyatta. I might’ve been overzealous,” Fareeha admits one night, head bowed. The last blooming azalea had finally succumbed, the leaves and stems covered in large, browning galls.

“There is nothing to apologize for. Failing is learning, and fate was against us this time.” Zenyatta pats her arm gently. “It also gives us reason to get out and see the sights.”

Fareeha brightens, straightening up to full height. 

“That does sound nice.”

* * *

“Zenyatta, may I have a word?”

“Certainly, Athena,” Zenyatta says aloud. Normally he would tap into her systems and converse in a more private setting, but his hands are soiled with, well, soil, tamping down the perimeter of a wax begonia. It had outgrown its old container and had begun to wilt.

“The plants are quite a sight,” she says. “It has become troublesome to maintenance.”

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta hums. “But there is pleasure in such work, troublesome as it may be.”

“I may have a solution, if you follow my direction.”

Zenyatta dips his head, and Athena leads him down a less-traveled corridor of the watchpoint, then into a defunct area. Their team is small, and most of the Gibraltar base is unused to conserve power. Past old rooms, cobwebs and dust, then through an almost rusted door at the end of several hallways. He steps onto a small balcony, sweet and cool from the mid-morning air. For a moment, he sees an endless mountain range, billowing golden banners, ancient, repurposed stone. Then he returns to himself, observes the steep cliffs beyond the railing, the ocean crashing far below, and the cement flooring that gives way to a few rows of freshly tilled soil.

“You did this yourself?”

“Orisa helped me,” her voice is gentle, slightly shy. “Your garden has outgrown its pots. Perhaps you may transfer some here.”

Zenyatta kneels, tests the soil, array flickering curiously as he ponders.

“It is perfect. Thank you, Athena. This must have been quite an undertaking.”

“I would be lying if I said the company had been unpleasant during the task.” The quiet amusement brushes along Zenyatta’s sensors, warm harmony like baked sand in the late afternoon sun. 

“I never would have guessed you a cougar.”

Her cool, synthetic voice  _ sputters _ , and the sound is swiftly followed by Zenyatta’s laughter. 

* * *

It is a team effort, when the day comes that most agents are free. Genji trails behind Zenyatta dutifully, hiding his yawns behind his palm, but Jesse beats everyone to the balcony that morning.

“Always loved to garden. Gotta do maw proud,” the cowboy winks, slapping his jean clad thighs. “Let’s get it done!”

Lena shows up next. Then Mei, Dr. Zeigler, Reinhardt, who brings a hearty breakfast to celebrate the occasion. They begin with the sun low in the sky and end with it in near opposite position, the late afternoon light shining upon the small, freshly planted earth.

Most have left, the doctor to her reactions, Lena to an impromptu mission with Winston and Ana. McCree leaves to catch a well deserved nap after a 36 hour flight. Only Genji remains, sipping the cooled dregs of his tea. They survey the new plants and old, the singular iris divided and many more newly bought and planted. Not much to look at now, but patience is its own reward.

In a few months’ time, Zen sits in the midsummer sun, overwarm but impossibly pleasant, tending a garden of irises, pruned and watered in turn by everyone, their friends, their family. A labor, ultimately, of love. Zenyatta kneels astride the patch, hovering just above the earth to pull the weeds and prune extra foliage, framed by deep, lilac-lined petals and gentle white.

In this way, Zenyatta finds home once more.

  
Art by [Charles](https://twitter.com/ajhcharles)


End file.
